


What Else

by SamGladwinProb



Category: Darkest Dungeon
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamGladwinProb/pseuds/SamGladwinProb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jester feels really bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Else

I thought I was holding up alright. I'd been off for about a week, they dropped me off at the bar after a bad run and I lost a week drinking, throwing dice, putting my cock in people, and then they came back, two of them, and they said "we're the only ones left, us and..." Fucking hell, I forgot her name. I don't think she ever told me. That's not important right now. It feels important, to me, but it's not really. Who fucking cares.

The cutthroat and the fucking leper, they dragged themselves out of that pigsty, they crawled through the village gates and into the bar where I was happily forgetting I was alive and they told me "we're the only ones left, we're going back down" and oh, my friends, it was like I never left. I cracked. I started laughing, and the funny thing is, the joke here was that there was nothing to laugh about any more. I'd spent a week - nearly a whole week, I said it like that because if I thought of it in terms of "they didn't even give me a week" I'd have lost it, I'd have killed the bastards - I'd spent a week laughing, having fun, pretending things were good and that life was overall enjoyable, and worth it, maybe something you'd recommend to friends, and here come these two, having the gall to survive, popping up and telling me "no, life's hard, remember?" Life isn't fun. Life wasn't fun. That week I'd spent in the bar, not even going home in the mornings, sleeping in a bar-stool if I even felt like sleeping, that wasn't life being fun. That was me forgetting - forgetting, and not for nearly long enough - that life wasn't fun.

Cutthroat slapped me because I was laughing too hard. I started laughing even harder at that, and he slapped me again, and again, and then I started screaming, I was making the same approximate motions but I wasn't smiling any more, I was just screaming, wailing like I wasn't human, and he kept slapping me, and he probably wouldn't have stopped until I was dead if the leper hadn't put a hand on his shoulder. He had the wherewithal to remember that they needed me alive. 'Cause I'm not in the best shape at the minute, but the two of them and... and what's-her-name, for fuck's sake, they didn't stand a chance if I was dead. Or if they left me at the bar to enjoy myself until I died of it. Couldn't have that, I was far too useful for that. Too useful for my own good.

I don't like adventuring. Adventuring hurts. It really hurts, really badly, and if I had it my way I'd never do it again, I'd settle down and tell some jokes and fuck some whores, and maybe eventually find a whore I liked enough I'd stop fucking the other ones and stick to fucking her, quite permanently. I wish that was an option for me, I really, really wish it was. Life doesn't do you favours, though. I was an adventurer now, and my two options, presently, were be an adventurer or die. Adventuring's at least more interesting than being dead. I never could handle being bored, I can't see dying being anything other than boring. So I thought about it for a little bit, and I stared at my sickle for maybe a little bit too long, but cutthroat and the melting man didn't say anything, bless them, and in the end I made the not-altogether-too-easy decision to go and not be bored in one of the least boring places I know. Darkest Dungeon.

I wish I'd asked the graverobber what her name was. To this day, I wish I'd asked.


End file.
